At her breakup party, Suzy kisses Ashar again, not that she wants to, not that she cares, but because a breakup party must be like a breakup party, and everyone is grooving to the beat of rock, and heavy metal gongs are pulling apart their skulls, and quietness is deadly, because it reminds Suzy of promises made and promises broken, to her longtime boyfriend. Kissing Ashar is fun, kissing Ashar is bliss, kissing Ashar is guilt, and guilt is fun and blissful in its own way, and so, at the breakup party, Suzy kisses Ashar again.  

On the last day of Ramadan, there are more doves than people on the backside of the mosque complex and they are pecking on grains, on rice, on crumbs, while young couples arching towards each other, away from prying eyes, are making the most of a relaxed evening, and Suzy sits like a stick, like a branch, fallen, dry, good timber material, and she prays that someone rubs a matchstick against her arms, because she wants to see a fire, a fire is fun, a fire is bliss, and the smell of smoke burning flesh must be blissful and joyful in its own way, and so, she waits for a fire, but it is the middle of March, and summer is only a hint this year, what with nor’ westers and hailstorms every other day, and so, all that Suzy can do is to pray for a fire, is to pray for a burning sun, while the sky rumbles and a late evening shower seems possible, very possible, more possible than a breakup party arranged at the hostel terrace even before Suzy and her boyfriend have clearly decided on a breakup. 

I pray this works out, I so want us to be together…Suzy’s words to her boyfriend ring through the heavy chords of the bass guitars at the party, as though we always pray for what we want, as though we always know what we want and pray for it, as though we always want out prayers to come true. Suzy means well, maybe, Suzy speaks the truth, maybe, but when she sets out for a walk after a fight with her boyfriend, she texts Ashar without thinking, she texts Ashar without feeling, she texts Ashar without praying, and she wants to sound matter of fact, just like that texts, just general texts, as she tells herself, and she asks him if he wants something for himself this coming Eid, since she is walking down to the evening market at the town square, and she wants to casually check if he wants something from her. 

A scarf, he says. 

What colour? She asks. 

Peacock blue, he asserts. 

An hour later, a peacock blue scarf is in her tote bag, and she texts him, the scarf is here and wishes to meet you, would you want to meet me? 

Backspace. 

Now that the scarf is here, will you meet me? 

Backspace. 

I got your scarf. Will you not meet me? 

Backspace. 

The scarf is in my hands and my heart is fluttering to meet you. Come, come once. 

Backspace. 

I got your scarf. 

Then, a separate text. When will you take it? 
 
Ashar is sleeping upside down. His phone battery is dead. The peacock blue scarf remains with Suzy, pushed down inside her bag, already crumpled. This is the fifty-sixth time she has checked her phone. No text. 
 
Suzy is crying in her sleep. She doesn’t want a breakup with her boyfriend. In her dreams, she is baking muffins for him. In her dreams, he is biting into her just-made warm muffins, the chocolate chips still so soft that they flow down like juices on his chin. She is a good bakery chef and she hopes this will make their relationship work, but then he spots the peacock blue scarf inside her bag and he guesses it is for Ashar, and he asks her, and she denies, and then they are fighting again and there are more hawks than people on the mosque complex that evening. 
 
The next morning, Suzy is texting her boyfriend. 

Trust me once, I have nothing special for him. 

Backspace. 

Believe me, we are only friends. 

Backspace. 

I really really want us to be together. 

Backspace. 

I kissed him once, and it was a mistake. 

Backspace. 

Okay, I confess I kissed him more than once. But these are all mistakes, just accidents, random. 

Backspace. 

If I burn the scarf, and dump the ash, will you take me back? 

Backspace. 

I don’t care about the scarf, I care about us. 

Backspace. 

It’s you I want, not him. 

Backspace. 

Damn the scarf! It’s only a scarf! Can’t you trust me? 

Backspace. 

Give me some time, I’ll figure this out.  
 
Suzy’s boyfriend is on a digital detox. His phone is locked away in the cupboard. 
 
Suzy’s friends are keen on a breakup party. That’s how our generation does it. We celebrate, we don’t just mourn. Come on, Suzy! 
 
At her breakup party, Ashar has the peacock blue scarf around his shoulders. His eyes are blue. His eyes are on Suzy. Empty bottles are rolling on the floor. There are blue witches inside the bottles, bottled up, corks pressed shut, so that what ferments inside, stays inside.  

At her breakup party, Suzy kisses Ashar again while she is waiting for a call from her boyfriend. At her breakup party, Suzy kisses Ashar again while she is thinking of going over to his place tomorrow. At her breakup party, Suzy kisses Ashar again while she makes up her mind to bury this, once and for all. At her breakup party, Suzy is determined that this is the last time that she is kissing Ashar. 
 
She hits backspace. 

Nothing gets deleted. 
 
The scarf remains. 

So does the kiss. 

The kisses, in fact. 

All of them running along the hem of the scarf.  

Fermented and smelly, and once you uncork the bottles, it’s intoxicatingly suffocating.